


on the nose

by Deisderium



Series: would smell as sweet [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alpha Bucky Barnes, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Epistolary, Established Relationship, Letters, Love Letters, M/M, Masturbation, Military Protocol in the Omegaverse Is a Thought All Right, Omega Steve Rogers, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Racy Letters, Scenting, Scratch and Sniff Love Letters, Sharing Clothes, Smut, Steve Rogers (Offscreen), World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-01-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:47:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22236592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deisderium/pseuds/Deisderium
Summary: "Barnes," barked the sergeant, and Bucky jolted out of his thoughts. He strode forward to get his mail and was thrilled to see not only a letter from Becca and another from his ma, but an actual package from Steve. He took his treasures and retreated back to his tent.Inside the package was another bound in butcher paper and string, but much smaller than the shirt. There was a note tucked in the strings of this one too, but it was just a small square of folded paper.The note in the string was much shorter than the letter Steve had sent him with the larger package. It read in its entirety:don't open this unless you're alone.*In which Bucky receives a sexy letter from home.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Series: would smell as sweet [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1600642
Comments: 64
Kudos: 725





	on the nose

**Author's Note:**

> I was struck by the inspiration for this thinking about how in an a/b/o world, there would likely be an olfactory component to letters. It's a prequel to the *other* a/b/o plot-what-plot that I've been working on for ages and would love to finish soonish.

Bucky thought he had never seen enthusiasm like the men of the 107th showed when the mail came in. Not that he was exempt either—he was lined up with the rest of them, his fingers crossed that there might be a letter from Becca or his Ma, or—and here he crossed his toes, too—from Steve.

Steve was a good correspondent, but nothing was going to be the same as being home with him. They'd been sweethearts since they were children, and had mated early. Everyone around the neighborhood—well, not everyone, but enough people—had said that it was doomed to fail, that Steve was too frail an omega for an alpha like Bucky, but as long as Steve and Bucky knew they were wrong, Bucky didn't really give a fuck. His family and Steve's ma, before she had died, had known they the two boys were inseparable since the first time they met, just about, and none of them would have been fool enough to try to keep them apart.

They had both presented late, and Bucky had had a few uncertain years thinking they would both be betas. He'd never said this to anyone but Steve, but he'd have made it work one way or another no matter how Steve presented. He'd promised himself when Steve turned sixteen and had shown no sign of presenting any way.

But Steve had gone into his first heat that year, and it had solved a lot of problems for both of them. Made some more, sure, but nothing they couldn't handle together.

Bucky found that he was smiling fondly as he stood in line.

"Barnes," barked the sergeant, and Bucky jolted out of his thoughts. He strode forward to get his mail and was thrilled to see not only a letter from Becca and another from his ma, but an actual package from Steve. He took his treasures and retreated back to his tent.

As a sergeant and an alpha, he was fortunate enough to have a tent to himself. Betas shared tents, and so did omegas, who served solely as support staff, and were never sent into combat, and hadn't Steve had quite a lot to say about  _ that _ , not that Bucky disagreed in the slightest. Maybe if he'd grown up not knowing Steve, or not knowing his sister Rose, maybe he could have believed that omegas were solely to be protected, that they were weaker just because they didn't have an alpha’s musculature—but he hadn't. He would never say that physiology or instinct ought to dictate profession, and if he was glad in his heart of hearts that Steve wasn't here, it wasn't because he was an omega, but because Bucky would want to spare any of his loved ones the horrors that he'd seen, that was all.

But regardless, Bucky had a tent to himself. Betas and omegas doubled up, but two alphas were supposedly unable to share a tent, each claiming it as his own territory. Bucky was mildly amused at the thought that they were supposed to be so uncontrollable; he thought he could have managed it all right outside of rut, which didn't matter since he was on army-grade suppressants anyway, but he certainly wasn't sad about the privacy.

He made himself read the letters from his ma and Becca first, the way he might save the choicest portion of a steak for last, or anticipate a rich, chocolate dessert. They were full of updates about the neighborhood, and of course they talked about Steve. Steve had refused to move in with Bucky’s family, saying that he'd manage just fine in their apartment until Bucky got back, but Bucky couldn't help worrying, and his family knew it. Winifred mentioned he'd been for dinner a few times a week, which eased Bucky's mind—he knew his ma would look out for Steve without getting his hackles up about being looked after—and Becca mentioned that they'd been to some meetings together. 

Steve was a card-carrying socialist and advocate for women's and omegas' rights, and met with activists from Harlem regularly to march for racial equality as well. Bucky wouldn't have even known about half the causes Steve joined except for his mate. It made him proud, and he was glad and worried at the same time that Steve was still keeping it up even though Bucky was gone. He had to tell himself that his family would look after Steve and Becca if they got arrested again.

Becca didn't say whether Steve was still trying to enlist in a support capacity. Bucky felt certain that Steve's letter would tell him that; never mind that Steve was asthmatic and hard of hearing, colorblind, and flat-footed to boot. He wanted to do his part, and Bucky understood, even if he was secretly relieved that Steve's part in the war would be at home in Brooklyn.

Bucky got through his ma's and Becca's letters. He knew he would read them again many times, and he had plenty of downtime to compose replies. But now it was time for dessert: he opened the package from Steve. There were chocolate bars and cigarettes, both of which he was grateful for, several pairs of socks, some store-bought, some knitted in Steve's precise, relentless stitches—you wouldn't think he'd have the patience to knit, but he'd been sick enough as a kid that he'd gotten frighteningly good at it. There was an extra blanket, and a few dime novels, the pulp kind that Bucky loved, all full of space travel and alien princesses. And there was another package wrapped in brown butcher's paper and tied with string, and best of all, there was a letter—a good, thick one slipped through the string around the package. Bucky anticipated pages dense with Steve's spiky writing.

Steve had not stopped going to enlistment centers, Bucky read, and he had not stopped missing his mate. Steve told him all about his usual activities, going to all their favorite haunts even though, he said, it was not the same without Bucky. It made Bucky homesick to think about it, but it was the satisfying ache of pressing his tongue against a sore tooth, or his thumb against a bruise. He’d rather feel the ache along with the satisfaction of thinking of home. 

Steve had been sick—"only a little cold, Bucky, I can hear you worrying from here"—and he told Bucky about what he'd been able to buy at the grocer's, and what was rationed, and the victory garden he and a couple of other omegas in their building had going on the rooftop. He'd pressed a yellow cucumber flower to the page, and although it was dried flat and gone mostly brown, Bucky could picture him folding it into the page with loving care and that was what mattered.

Steve had picked up a few art commissions, mostly sign painting, but also a few illustrations for the League of Omega Voters, which was something he actually believed in strongly, and therefore more satisfying to work on than any number of advertisements, no matter how well they paid. Although Steve usually found a way to make those a little subversive as well, to Bucky's delight.

And then, at the finish, a more personal paragraph that had Bucky wishing he was home more than ever.

> You remember those little notes we used to leave each other, back when you were working nights in '37? I wish I could write you a little something like that, only I don't know that I like the thought of the censors reading it. But maybe this will get us close: I wore one of your shirts for a few days and pretended it was your arms around me. I wrapped it up in paper and sent it back to you, and maybe you can pretend it's my arms around you. I've been thinking of you in the night and wishing I could touch you. I hope you're thinking about me some nights too.
> 
> all my love,
> 
> yours,
> 
> Steve 

Bucky's fingers trembled on the string, kitchen twine that Steve had used to tie the package closed, pulling it slowly open. He pulled the paper apart, and suddenly tears stung his eyes. The smell of Steve wafted up to him, as comforting as an embrace, and he pulled the shirt out and held it to his face, burying his nose in Steve's familiar scent. He could no more forget the way Steve smelled than he could forget his face, but both had begun to smudge around the edges in his mind.

He pulled off his uniform shirt and hastily unfolded the one Steve had sent him. The smell would fade faster that way, but the two of their scents would blend together, and it wasn't the same as scenting him in person, but it was the closest thing that he'd get any time soon, the closest he could feel to burying his nose in Steve's neck. It reminded him of lazy Sundays, the two of them wrapped around each other on the couch until their scents smoothed out into one into one, the spicy musk of Bucky's scent layering with the sugar-sweetness of Steve that always filled his nostrils; he'd never smelled anything better.

He unfolded the shirt, and another, smaller package fell out. He waited until he had slipped his arms into the sleeves, but didn't bother buttoning up before he bent to pick up whatever it was that had fallen. Steve's smell enveloped him, and without meaning to, he let out a rumbling growl. It wasn't exactly a happy sound, but it wasn't unhappy either. The smell comforted him, but it made him miss his mate even more—it wasn't the real thing, and he wouldn't be truly happy again until he could hold Steve in his arms again.

He bent lower until his fingers found the package, another bound in butcher paper and string, but much smaller than the shirt. There was a note tucked in the strings of this one too, but it was just a small square of folded paper.

Bucky picked up the tiny parcel. What was it they said—good things come in small packages? He'd always found that to be true of Steve, and he was certain that it would be true of whatever Steve had sent him..

The note in the string was much shorter than the letter Steve had sent him with the larger package. It read in its entirety:  _ don't open this unless you're alone and will be for a little while _ . Next to it, Steve had scrawled a heart. Well, he couldn't be much more alone than in his tent, and with a note like that, he couldn't bear to wait any longer. He untied the strings and unwrapped the paper. Immediately, a wave of scent hit him, even stronger than what he had smelled with the shirt.

The burned sugar scent was nothing that he had expected to smell anytime soon and he buried his nose in the—handkerchief, he noted absolutely; it was a handkerchief. God, it smelled like Steve had rubbed it all over his scent glands while he was in heat. In fact that was exactly what he must have done. 

_ Fuck _ , it smelled good, and Bucky was immediately hard, his cock swelling against the confines of his pants. He unbuttoned his fly and shucked his pants quickly, imagining it: Steve, by himself, waiting out his heat on his own, but thinking of Bucky, maybe making a nest in their bed the way he liked to do. He'd have been desperate, slick and wet and loose, waiting to be filled, having to make do with his own hands, or maybe some of the toys that they had. But he'd left one hand free to grind the handkerchief against his swollen scent glands, and that probably felt good too, the pressure, the friction—not the same as when Bucky was there to kiss and lick over the mating scar at Steve's neck, but good nonetheless. Maybe his hips would have arched up, his cock red, his hand moving quickly, his ass clenching around a toy, his free hand holding the cloth to his neck—Bucky groaned, picturing it, and something else fluttered out of the handkerchief—a red ribbon.

Bucky froze for a long moment, just staring. He had fond memories of this ribbon; more than once, Steve had tied him to the bedposts and had his way with him. Outside of rut, Bucky wasn't particular about who did what to whom. They both enjoyed everything, and he didn't see why he should be the only one to get his dick wet. And ideas about an alpha having to be in control, to dominate, all the time were outdated and stupid. Bucky loved it when Steve tied him down and rode him, telling Bucky how to fuck him just right. Steve said he loved it too, loved seeing Bucky's muscles strain as he tried to keep still, tried to move how Steve told him. Steve was a bossy fuck as the best of times, and Bucky loved it. 

He picked up the ribbon, inhaled, and almost fell over in shock. His cock throbbed, and he rolled onto his back on his sleeping bag, the ribbon draped over his face. This was  _ filthy,  _ delightfully so. Steve had rubbed through his slick while he was in heat, and even weeks later, the scent was incredibly strong.

Bucky allowed himself to picture this too, Steve sprawled back on the bed, his hands between his legs, thinking of Bucky.

Bucky's cock pulsed, and he blessed whatever person had designed military tents with scent-blocking fabric, because wrapped in the delicious smell of Steve as he was, there was no way that he was going to be able to keep from touching himself. He was still wearing his shorts, and that seemed like a damn shame, so he pushed them down to his ankles and kicked them off so he was wearing nothing but the shirt that Steve had worn until it smelled of nothing but his omega.

His dick was hard and heavy, his balls drawn up tight already, just from the smell of Steve, and there was no way that this was going to last as long as he wanted it to. He took the ribbon in his left hand and wrapped his right around his cock.

He had to revise his mental image now. Steve would have had the handkerchief at his scent glands—maybe the ones at his neck, or maybe he had tied it around his wrist to catch the aroma from the glands there while he played with himself. Maybe he'd had the it around his wrist and the red ribbon in his hand. He'd have started working himself over, the satiny fabric sliding against the sensitive skin of his dick as slick pooled at his hole, making ready for the alpha who wasn't there—but that was too melancholy a thought for the mental image that Bucky was building, so he turned his attention instead to the way Steve was thinking of him even when he wasn't physically there, imagining Bucky the way Bucky was imagining Steve now.

He moaned quietly, biting the sound off before it could get loud, and rubbed his thumb over his slit, sliding through the precome, more than usual—of course, with the smell of Steve's slick strong in his nostrils—and he spend a second slowly stroking just the tip. His foreskin was fully retracted, and he slid his hand down his shaft in a long slow glide. Maybe Steve had been doing that too, dragging it out, luxuriating in the feel of his own hand—

But no, not if he was in heat. He wouldn't have been able to make himself wait. He'd have had the satin in his hand, stroking himself hard and fast, trying to get some relief. Sometimes it made it a little easier if he could have an orgasm before he got his ass full of something. So maybe he made himself come just from jerking off, his ass clenching on nothing, his slick glands getting him wet and ready. Bucky didn't make a sound this time, but he wanted to. He wanted to toss his head back and moan as loud as he wanted, maybe call Steve's name; but the tent was scent-blocked, not soundproof, so he didn't.

Steve would've got himself off quick, Bucky decided, just to get the edge off, and then he would've taken his time. When he was in heat, they could go for hours, wringing orgasm after orgasm out of him. Steve's heat usually brought on Bucky's rut, but alone, he'd have had to have gotten creative, maybe opening himself up with his fingers, or maybe just going right in with a toy.

In Bucky's imagination, Steve had the rubber cock with the inflatable knot. He'd have gone straight for it, Bucky decided, still desperate and too impatient to wait even though he'd come first, thinking of Bucky—thinking of this very moment, not knowing exactly when it would happen, but knowing that Bucky's nose would be full of Steve's scent, his dick and his scent glands both engorged. Bucky fisted his cock a little faster. He took the hand with the ribbon, and pressed it against his own scent glands, biting back the sound that wanted to escape him at the pressure. It felt good, the friction at his neck, but even more, it seemed to echo throughout his body; in his cock, of course, but in his hard, aching nipples as well, and faint ghosts of longing in the glands at his wrists and groin. He tightened his grip around his dick, and it throbbed in his grasp.

Steve would be on his hands and knees, Bucky thought—or no, he'd have his chest pressed the bed so that his hands were free, one holding onto his oversensitive cock, the other stuffing his ass full, then working the pump to inflate the knot.

Bucky moaned, and his hips jerked forward. What a picture Steve made on their bed, aching to be filled, aching for Bucky. He'd have pressed back against the toy and his own hand, angling it to hit his prostate and his sensitive slick glands. God, he'd be wrecked, spread out and wanting, unable to get enough.

Bucky brought the hand with the ribbon down and wrapped it around his cock. The scent of Steve's slick was still strong in his nostrils, the smell of him wrapped around Bucky in the shirt. The satin of the ribbon was cool and slippery against his overheated skin, but it warmed quickly. he stroked faster, the ribbon sliding up and down his shaft, his other hand massaging the loose skin around his knot. In his mind, Steve moaned his name as he pressed back into the toy, and his hand moved faster and faster on his cock. Bucky mimicked the motion, biting his lip to keep quiet, pleasure building in an overwhelming crescendo.

In his mind's eye, Steve came, spilling over his fingers, ass tightening around the toy. Bucky clenched his hand around his own dick and pumped it hard and fast, and then he was coming too, pleasure coursing through his veins, spilling out his cock and across his belly. And then—

"God  _ damn  _ it," Bucky muttered, reaching down hastily to get a hand around his knot. It pulsed beneath his touch, aching without something tight around it. He squeezed rhythmically, the way Steve would have around him, his face hot with embarrassment even though he was alone. He kept coming, pulses of his knot forcing more come from him. This was going to be a bitch to clean up. He hadn't popped a knot unintentionally like this since he was seventeen—though come to think of it, Steve has been involved that time too.

He took the ribbon and dragged it through the mess on his stomach, mingling the two of their most intimate scents. He could cut in half, send part back to Steve—though he'd have to get clever about hiding it, the way Steve had in his shirt.

The bell for mess rang, and Bucky heaved a sigh. It'd be twenty minutes at least before he was decent for other company, so he'd be eating whatever was left after all the other locusts descended. It had been worth it, though.

He gave his knot a squeeze that sent a shock of just-on-the-edge-of-oversensitive pleasure through him. then found his discarded shorts and wiped his hands clean. He had a scent-blocking candle to light to clear the air, and he had to wait for his knot to go down, but before any of that, he owed Steve a letter.

And sated and surrounded by both their scents, he was just in the mood to write it.

~o~


End file.
